Hermione Walked into a Pub
by mariteri
Summary: The name sort of says it all. T for language. I do not own Harry Potter, Sherlock or any of their characters. Nor do I make any money from the posting of this fanfiction.


Just a little silly something that popped into my head. Enjoy!

Please read and review!

Hermione walked into the pub. The day had been long and frankly the last thing she wanted to do was stay up later. But she needed to eat something and a single malt whiskey wouldn't be remiss at the moment. Luckily the kitchen was still open and the whiskey they told her was always single malt when it counted. Chuckling to herself, she ordered the night's special and three fingers of their finest single malt whiskey with a side of water. She was in the middle of fixing up her drink when an argument at the end of the bar got loud enough for her to hear it.

"People in general are idiots, John!" the tall black haired man exclaimed. "They are unobservant buffoons, whose best trick on their best days is remembering a phone number that they used to have when they were children!" He jumped to his feet and pointed straight over to Hermione, who was now sipping on her drink and watching him. "Do you need an example? You! Whatever your name is…"

"Hermione," she murmured. "What can I do for you?"

"Deduce what you can about me!" he demanded.

She blinked at him for a moment before her eyes went over him carefully. "You're 1.83 meters tall and you're a bit underweight for your height," she started. "Your coat is old, but your shoes are new…"

"Anyone…"

"Someone else purchased them for you," she cut him off. "You would have gone for high quality Italian loafers that could be run in. Whomever bought those did so with what little money they scrapped together and gave them to you as a way to replace ones they think they ruined. Having nothing else to put on your feet, you accepted them no more than perhaps two hours ago." His eyes went sharp at her words. "You've grown accustomed to them, but they don't match what you're wearing. You're not a vain man, but you know that how one looks counts in some way. Which is very amazing considering you spend most of your time in your mind palace and honestly couldn't give a damn what others think of you in general." She sipped on her drink. "You grew up very well off, meaning you were spoiled as a child. I know this because clearly you've grown into a spoiled adult more than accustomed to being correct in every regard and having everything your way in nearly all situations." She looked over to the barman telling him, "Can I possibly get the meal to-go?" When he nodded to this, she said, "It's obvious that I won't be getting any peace soon. Could you please pack up that meal for me?" She turned back to the man now glaring at her. "Really, must you be so churlish? It was you that offered the challenge, not I. And even then, I've only grazed the surface."

"How did you know about the running?"

"Your freshly torn knees and frayed pant cuffs told me as much," she murmured, still sipping on her whiskey. "You don't smoke anymore, but you're just dying for a fag right this very moment, aren't you? But you have your patches on, so you're set. At least for now."

"How…" he breathed.

"You reek of nicotine," she drawled. "And if you're not smoking and I can't see you chewing that awful gum that only leaves the patches, does it not?" She finished off her drink and took the food from the barman in the plastic bag, handing him the money for the drink and food. "Thank you." She looked over to Holmes. "Are we done yet? I've had a long day and your boorish behavior is doing nothing for my downward sloping attitude."

"You said that you only scratched the surface…"

She used the seat at the bar to whisper something in his ear, his body going stiff and his face blank. Casually, she lightly kissed his ear lobe and added, "And for your information, it's induction, not deduction."

Stepping away from him, she took up her purse and strolled out only giving a nod to John and kept on walking out of the pub. Hermione heard him running behind herself even as she turned the corner and disapperated away.

Sherlock skidded to a halt, looking around the street. She was gone. John caught up, panting as he did so.

"What the…bloody…hell?! Why are…you running…after her?"

"She's gone," he breathed, looking around all over, but she was nowhere to be seen. "Where…"

"Holmes!" John snapped. "What is going on?"

Sherlock closed his eyes and was thinking back to that moment. Her breath was hot and scented with the whiskey she had been drinking. Her soft slightly husky voice had sent chills up his spine as she whispered barely loud enough to be called speech.

"_You're a virgin," _she had told him. "_And I believe in Sherlock Holmes, even if he is an arse._" And she kissed his ear.

His eyes opened, looking to John with a smile. "It would seem I was wrong. I am made glad to know there is at least one less idiot in the world than I reasoned."

Rolling his eyes, John asked him what the woman had said to him to make him so convinced. Sherlock simply walked back to the pub in order to ring a cab to take them home to Baker Street.

The End

There you go. Sometimes you just need to write it. Thank you for your time and I hope you have a good day.


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